First Impressions
by LadyRhiyana
Summary: COMPLETED Prequel to the Catalyst. "There was a time, once, when the goblins were more than gibbering, mindless creatures, and the Goblin King more than a flouncing dilettante..."
1. Chapter 1

A/N – Most Sarah-returns-to-the-Underground fics feature a character as either Jareth's closest companion or his second in command. Here, in a thinly disguised attempt to get the creative juices flowing, I present myversion ofthe first meeting of Jareth and Bran, his eventual second in command.

It is not necessary to have read my story'the Catalyst' to understand this.

Disclaimer – I don't own the Labyrinth. This story was written solely for enjoyment – and the overcoming of writer's block – and most definitely not for profit. Once again, I have borrowed the Borgia family and transported it to the Underground.

* * *

First Impressions

* * *

It was quiet, now, on the battlefield at Caer Leon. The battle had come to a bloody end when three quarters of Southfells' army broke and fled in disarray, Nevismouth's men following, baying in anticipation of the slaughter to come. Older and less bloodthirsty than most of the young men in Nevismouth's army, the man known as Bran had let them go, staying behind himself to finish off those who had held their line.

Within the hour, as the sinking sun stained the sky lurid, bloody crimson, he stood alone in a field of dead men.

A jingling of bit and bridle drew his attention.

"You do not rejoice in our victory?" Tall, bright and leonine, Cesare Borgia – Nevismouth's brother-in-law – sat well on his expensive warhorse, caparisoned in Borgia black and gold.

"I do not rejoice in war," Bran said flatly.

"Oh, come now, man," Borgia smiled, bright and deceptively false. "You find no joy in war, or wine, or even wenching – what does please you, then?"

_A properly disciplined army. _

_A commander who treats this war with the seriousness it deserves. _

_An end to the madness that has engulfed us all… _

"It pleases me to fulfill my duty," he finally said. "I desire nothing more than the chance to serve my lord –"

As Bran had known it would, the grimly honourable absolutism quickly bored Borgia. "Yes, yes," he interrupted hastily, "that is all very well. You will be richly rewarded for your assistance in this, our greatest victory." He gathered up his reins, easily controlling the restless, shifting horse – despite everything, the man had an excellent seat – and, nodding his head in magnificent condescension, made a swift escape. Bran watched him go, his eyes narrowed against the sunset, and then turned away to make his way back to the camp.

It began to rain.

By the time he reached Nevismouth's headquarters – a grand name for a shabby pavilion that had seen far better days – it was pouring down, and random flickers of lightning had turned into a genuine thunderstorm. Bran was soaked through and could not possibly get any wetter, and so he trudged slowly through the rain and the mud, his heart heavy and his mind dark. Almost a thousand years in exile, and it had come to this: petty wars for petty lords –

It had been a very long time since he had served a man of whom he could be proud.

"Captain!" A voice called. "Come in and celebrate with us."

He turned to see his men – a scruffy, unshaven, badly armoured group of rogues – grinning madly at him, beckoning him from the shelter of a canvas tent. Despite his despondency and bitterness he smiled, and moved forward to join them.

* * *

Soaking wet, curled into a pathetic, shivering ball, with at least one of his ribs broken and his right eye swollen shut, Jareth cursed himself for a shortsighted, impetuous fool. Trying to sneak through Nevismouth's lines was never the best of ideas, even had he not been half-starved – really, after displaying such appalling judgment, it was no wonder that he ended up in a situation such as this. Caught and accused of spying for Otto of Southfells, as if he had any real interest in this most petty of conflicts.

He would laugh, if his ribs didn't hurt so much.

"On your feet, spy," the guard said harshly, giving him an extra nudge with his boot just to make sure he was paying attention. "The captain's coming to see you. Get up off the bloody floor."

Moving as slowly and cautiously as he could, Jareth dragged himself up to his feet. His ribs shifted, sending a bolt of agony through him, and he barely bit back a groan. Slowly, he managed to stand up straight, clutching his torso; when the tent flap opened and a shadowy silhouette entered, he even managed to lift his head and muster a sickly, insolent grin.

"Well, well," said a cool, mocking voice. "What have you found, sergeant?"

The guard drew himself up as far as he could, puffing his chest up ridiculously. "A spy, sir! Found him trying to get through the lines."

"Indeed." Jareth listened in some interest. That was a cultured voice, a courtly voice – not, he would have thought, the voice of a mercenary captain. "Show me your spy, sergeant. Let us see what Southfells sends us…"

The light brightened, and Jareth fought not to wince. Slowly, the captain's face grew into something more than a blur – he was sidhe, and dark haired; Jareth squinted, but his eyes were too swollen for any clearer sight.

"Tell me, master spy," the captain said, "what is your name?"

Jareth laughed, then, wincing automatically and clutching at his ribs. "I am no spy," he managed to grind out. "And damned…" he panted, "if I'll give you my name." He cried out and fell to his knees as the sergeant smashed his spear butt into his kidneys.

The captain sighed. "Sergeant…"

"Sir!"

"That is enough, thank you. I believe you have sufficiently subdued him – pray, leave us alone for a while. I doubt he will try anything in his state."

"Sir." Very promptly, the sergeant saluted and departed the tent, throwing Jareth a very eloquent look of warning. Still trying to recover his breath, he ignored it.

The captain lowered himself into a chair, stripped off his cloak and a pair of battered leather gloves. "And now we may speak in peace. –Sit down, master spy. You are high court sidhe; what are you doing so far from home?"

Jareth lowered himself down to sit on the ground. "I am an exile," he said simply. "I was trying to get to the river, and I had to get through your lines to do so. But I am not a spy."

The captain regarded him in silence for some time. "No, I don't think you are," he finally agreed. "No true spy would be so reckless, not unless he had a genuine death wish."

Jareth winced.

"Nevertheless," the other man continued, "I cannot let you go. I am still under contract to Nevismouth, distasteful though it may be, and so must detain you as a potential threat."

Jareth pondered the wording of that statement. "When does your contract run out?" he asked cautiously.

The captain smiled. "At dawn tomorrow."

* * *

There was a skin of indifferent wine on the battered field table. Bran watched the muddy, bedraggled outsider take a deep pull, saw him wince at the rough, barely aged vintage. Yes, this man was high court – it rang in his voice, which he tried unsuccessfully to disguise, and it was inherent in the lithe, careless arrogance with which he sat, although somewhat softened by the way he clutched his side and flinched every time he moved.

"Tell me," he said again. "What is your name?"

The tent was poorly lit, but he did not need much light to see the other man hesitate.

"You do not trust me?" he asked, ironically. But he was in a strange mood, tonight – no doubt that explained why he was even thinking of letting the stranger go.

"You have not given me reason to," the stranger answered. "Only the knowledge that your contract has not yet expired – which is no reassurance at all."

He laughed, reached out and took the wineskin for himself. The rough quality did not bother him – it had been centuries since he'd last tasted the glorious wines of the summer countries. "You do not think that you could prevail upon my better nature?"

He passed the wine back to the stranger who drank in turn. This time he did not react, merely closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the tent pole.

"I was considered charming once," the stranger conceded, smiling. "My tongue was like silver and, employed properly, could part even the primmest of maidens from their virtue."

"But?"

"But I wanted more than the carefree, footloose existence of the youngest son. I wanted power of my own, and in the end I sought to take it."

Bran took another pull, intrigued despite himself by first the charming, light-hearted roguery, and then the more serious determination. "You failed, then?"

The stranger laughed. It occurred to Bran that he had been thin and haggard before even the guards had caught him, and then he had been severely beaten before being tossed at Bran's feet. The warmth of the brazier and the unmixed wine must have gone straight to his head.

"I failed. My father disowned me and the King exiled me – and so, once again, I set out to seek power of my own, but this time out in the wide world and not at the Summer Court. So far, it has not been successful…"

"No," Bran smiled. "No, it does not look it. I would advise you, my friend, not to seek your power anywhere near the Borgias either –"

"The Borgias? Black and Gold?" The stranger's voice was dreamy and a little slurred, now – his head lolled and he sprawled bonelessly, a prelude to exhaustion.

"You saw?"

"I saw the nobleman on the magnificent horse – is he the reason you're leaving as soon as possible?"

Bran hesitated, impressed by his acumen. If he had deduced that much from what little he could have seen, in the rain through swollen eyes…

"Why did you fail in your bid for power?" he asked gently.

"Because…" there was a moment of silence, the stranger gathering his thoughts, "couldn't go through with it… couldn't kill him…" A long, almost regretful sigh, and a mumbled, almost intelligible phrase – and on that intriguing statement, he slumped to the ground, boneless, exhausted and completely drunk. Bran looked down at him for a long, thoughtful moment, wondering who he was and what he was truly doing here, and why, when he seemed so thoroughly determined to gain power, he had hesitated at the very last moment.

There were no answers forthcoming.

Shaking his head at his own folly, Bran picked up his cloak and laid it, as best he could, over the supine figure on the floor. And then, banking the glowing coals in the brazier, he sought his own rest.

He did not raise the alarm.

* * *

A/N – No Sarah, no romance, no angst. I hope that I haven't driven you all away… I'd love to hear your feedback about this fic. Next chapter –

"_Where will you go?" Jareth asked, squinting in the blinding morning light. _

_The other man shrugged. "Out. Away. South, where the Mariner seeks troops to sail against Caenis' pirates, east, in the Summerlands, where at least it is warm and dry – does it matter? There is nowhere in this world free of war."_

"_They say there are untouched lands to the far west, beyond the Great Plain."_

"_The far west?" The captain laughed, his eyes old, tired and bitter. "There's nothing but wasteland and goblins, lad…"_

_

* * *

_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N – The second chapter. I do not believe that this will be a long epic; it'll probably only be about five or so chapters.

Disclaimer – I don't own the Underground. Nor do I own the concept of tattooed totemic markings around the eyes – that belongs to Fraggin'Aardvark. I've only mentioned it once.

* * *

Chapter Two

* * *

The next morning brought bright sunlight, thick mud, and Nevismouth himself, flanked on either side by his wife and his brother-in-law. Bran, in no mood to play the diplomat, nevertheless answered his questions as courteously as possible –

Yes, he had sheltered the man in his tent all night.

No, he had not thought to report him – he had interviewed the intruder himself and had been satisfied that he was no spy. If I may be frank, my lord, bruised and battered as he was, he posed no real threat to anyone except himself. I did not think to disturb you, sir, because I knew that you dislike being bothered with the petty concerns of day-to-day operations, preferring to focus on far more important matters –

_Indulging your beauteous, treacherous wife, who casts seductive eyes towards her brother as you look on, blind and besotted…_

Yes, I completely understand, my lord. I apologise profoundly. Yes, Lord Borgia, I am a coward, an honourless worm worth far less than your horse. Please forgive this unworthy one –

_Son of a pox-ridden whore!_

Eyes lowered, hidden, he turned his cheek. He could feel them watching, waiting for his reaction, and he would not give them the satisfaction of eliciting one.

Bran watched them ride away, his jaw rigid and his fists clenched so tightly his nails cut half-moon crescents in his palms. His heart pounded with the need to let out the anger, the terrible, terrible anger that had been building for century upon worthless century, as he went from contract to contract, employer to employer, and every time felt himself slipping further and further away from what he had once been.

Slowly, with the ease of long, long practice, he buried his temper deep, deep down. Blood trickled down his chin and he wiped it off with his fingers, wincing as his split lip stung. The blood was thick, viscous bright crimson – one day he would kill Cesare Borgia for that.

By all the gods of earth and sky, he swore it.

* * *

"Good morning, master spy," came a vaguely familiar voice. Jareth rolled over, groaned, and opened his eyes –

The sunlight blinded him. There was a soft, malicious chuckle, and then the entrance to the tent fell back down, recreating the blessedly shadowed half-light of before.

"Open your eyes, my friend," the voice spoke again. "It is safe now."

Warily, he cracked one eye half open, saw that it was indeed much darker, and ventured to open the other. Sight fully restored, he looked about him with interest – he hadn't had a chance to observe much last night, thanks to the combined effect of fatigue, bruises and alcohol.

It was an old, small tent, repaired here and there with mismatched patches, containing nothing more than a tiny camp bed, a table and a chair. There was one other person in the tent with him – the man who had woken him, who had laughed, but who had also been good enough to shut out the bright sunlight.

"You're…the captain," he managed to groan. "Remember you from…last night."

"Yes," said the other man. "However, I am no longer the captain of this force – it is past dawn, and I am now unemployed."

Ah. That would explain why he was moving about, packing his possessions into his saddlebags. Jareth forced himself to sit up, caught the thick, dark woolen cloak that covered him before it slipped to the ground. It was not his cloak – bandits had stolen his cloak not ten miles from his home – so it must belong to the captain.

"Here," he said, extending it out to the other man, "this is yours, isn't it?"

The captain took it with an absent murmur of thanks.

"May I ask," he began cautiously, "where you will go, now that Nevismouth no longer employs you?"

In the morning light, he could see the other man's face – split lip and all. He was pureblooded sidhe, beautiful in a remote, angular fashion, with cool grey eyes and long, thick black braids woven with feathers and beads. Raven feathers they were, large and glossy, and there were raven markings tattooed around his old, old eyes –

"Yes," the captain said dryly, "I am called Bran."

The word meant simply raven or crow – it could not be his name, but the captain had not said it so either. Sometimes exiles took another name, out of shame or regret.

He took a deep breath. "My name," he said quietly, wondering whether this mercenary would recognize it, "is Jareth. And I am not a spy – but I think that if I stay in this camp, I will be executed as one."

"Undoubtedly you will, friend Jareth. I suggest you get out as soon as possible –"

"I would like to go with you."

Bran paused and looked at him through grave, steady eyes. "You would follow the path of a wandering mercenary? Fighting in endless scraps and petty conflicts until one day, your luck finally runs out? I don't think that's what you want from life, Jareth – gods, even your name brands you high court. Go seek some rival king who'll take you in and use you as a puppet."

"I am not of the blood royal, Bran. I would not be of any use – besides, my father has placed a ban on any of the Summer courts accepting my service."

Bran half-raised a brow. Jareth wondered whether he had just given himself away – there were few outside the royal family who could enforce such a ban. But if Bran had been an exile for a very, very long time, then perhaps he didn't know of Aethan, the King of Summer's right hand…

Or of the scandal surrounding Jareth, son of Aethan, who had been exiled for life from the Summerlands following the attempted murder of his elder brothers.

"I can't return to the courts. I won't. But I won't fade quietly into obscurity either – I failed once, but I will gain enough power to have my revenge…"

Another cool stare. "And you think that you will find your power base riding with me? Let me tell you something, boy – exiles on the road never make it anywhere, and they never leave anything behind when they're gone, either. If you want to build power, go to a Winter court if you must, because there's not a kingdom in the Underground that will take you in otherwise. If you had ambitions once, let them go – the exile's road leads only to war and death."

Jareth opened his mouth to argue, but Bran turned his back, signaling an end to the discussion. Quickly, efficiently – the result of long, long practice – he bundled up his cloak and stuffed it into his saddlebags, then slung them over his shoulder and ducked out of the tent. Jareth followed him out.

"Where will you go?" he asked, squinting in the blinding morning light.

"Out. Away. South, where the Mariner seeks troops to sail against Caenis' pirates, east, in the Summerlands, where at least it is warm and dry – does it matter? There is nowhere in this world free of war."

They walked over to the picketed horses, Bran heading towards a nondescript dun and a bay with one white sock. Jareth knew he would have to think quickly, before the other man rode off without him.

"They say there are untouched lands to the far west, beyond the Great Plain. Perhaps there, there could be a place for all, even exiles."

Bran said nothing for a moment, while he greeted the horses and fed them an apple each, patting their noses and whispering into their ears. Finally, he said, "The far west?" He laughed, his eyes old, tired and bitter. "There's nothing but wasteland and goblins, lad…"

"Then we can make a place of our own."

That gave the other man pause.

_

* * *

_

_A place of our own?_

Bran wondered how a whelp of barely two hundred years, not even a year on the road by the look of him, would so easily class himself an exile. Except he was not a whelp, he was gentry of the Summer courts, born to luxury and idle intrigue, meaningless dalliance and cruel, elaborate games. Whoever had exiled him had been cruel enough to know what long years on the road, denied access to the courts, would do to such a flittering, idle dilettante – look at him, now, even after only one year.

His white, no doubt beautiful face was bruised and swollen, his fair hair haphazardly hacked and shorn, and he was clad in filthy rags and castoffs. He looked nothing like the courtier he must once have been, draped in silks and satins, eyes slyly painted, every word and gesture both significant and deceptive.

It was an improvement.

"You would be an exile, Jareth?" he asked, deliberately. "You would take to the road with me?"

Jareth seemed to understand the significance of his question. "Yes," he replied. "Yes, I would."

Bran sighed. "So be it." He swung up onto Inganiad, nodded to the bay. "Ride Whitesock for the moment, until you get another horse." His men, overenthusiastic, had shot the one Jareth had been riding last night.

He watched the boy mount, noting both his excellent seat and the way he favoured his left side – the broken ribs again.

"Whose is that magnificent black, over there?" Jareth asked, his eyes roving covetously over the glossy black stallion in an enclosure all by itself.

"Borgia's."

He did not need to turn his head to see the look he knew Jareth was giving him; it was pure mischief, whether delivered from eyes swollen and bruised, or outlined in kohl and malachite. "Borgia? Is he not the one responsible for your mouth?"

"Hmm." He gave in. He turned his head, and met those sly eyes. "But we will not be taking his horse today. The black is far too noticeable…"

"There are ways around that."

"I know. But I am prepared to wait – and here, Jareth, is your first lesson: patience is preferable to instant gratification. And the grand ironic gesture, while no doubt _de rigeur _at Court, where reputations and social influence hinge on appearances and superficialities, is ultimately worthless out here in the real world."

"You're saying you can't afford it."

"I can't afford it. We can't afford it. That's why I stood still this morning and let him strike me, and that's why even you, proud and haughty sidhe lord, must learn to bow your head if the situation calls for it."

For the first time, Jareth looked affronted. It was fascinating to watch – he drew himself up, his head lifted, and even his nostrils flared with haughty indignation. "I bow to nothing and no one. Not my father, not my king, not even the High King himself."

"You'll bow to necessity, lad. We all do, in the end."

* * *

In the end, they rode out of the camp without Borgia's black, although Jareth did cast a few wistful glances back towards it as they left. He vaguely remembered that confrontation from this morning, remembered Bran's appeasing, placatory voice and Borgia's angry, impatient voice, and then the sharp crack of a palm striking flesh.

At court it would have been a deadly insult if anyone had dared to even touch him without his permission, but here, in this place, Bran – proud, dignified Bran – had allowed that puffed-up fool to not only strike him, but to backhand him, the most contemptuous of blows.

Afterwards he had bowed, and apologized for it.

"_You'll bow to necessity, lad. We all do, in the end."_

Exiles, those who were cast out of their own kingdoms for common crimes, not political ones, and so could not find a home in another kingdom or court, were the most despised beings in the Underground. They were beneath even peasants, because even the lowest peasant had an accepted place in the hierarchy of his kingdom; exiles existed outside the security of such structures, had no place, no rank, nothing but their own two hands. Some became bandits and thieves, and others, like Bran became mercenaries, but they were all united by one common characteristic – they had nowhere to go, and were universally despised.

Now Jareth had joined their ranks.

"_I bow to nothing and no one. Not my father, not my king, not even the High King himself."_

The exiles bowed their heads to necessity, accepted the despite and contempt of all they came across because they had been beaten down by life, by circumstance, by years and years of degradation.

But not him. Never him.

Jareth refused to end up like that.

He would die first.

* * *

A/N – Next chapter, Jareth begins to see the potential of the exiles. Unfortunately, Bran notices Jareth's resemblance to his father. Interesting events occur.

Please don't forget to feed the author! Thanks to all my reviewers for their encouraging comments.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N – Chapter Three, and we come to the main gist of the story. I have tried not to make Jareth too altruistic/idealistic; if anything, Bran is the more romantic of the two.

Disclaimer – I don't own the Labyrinth. Don't sue. I have also borrowed (from Prof. Tolkien) a family of innkeepers named Butterbur, because I couldn't resist.

* * *

Chapter Three

* * *

It was a small, dark, filthy way house, no higher than two stories; the thatch was grey with age, and the whitewashed walls blackened with smoke and mud and dirt. Jareth eyed it dubiously, but Bran flicked him a sidelong, challenging look.

"Well? Are you coming in?"

"I thought you said this was the best inn in the area."

Bran smiled. "It is. Or rather, I should say, it is the only inn in the area – there are not so many such meeting places in the Fringes, Jareth. When villages and settlements are more than a week's ride apart, then you learn to appreciate what you can."

"It looks old."

"Hm." Bran dismounted, and tied his horse to a rail. "There has always been an inn here, in this spot, and a Butterbur has always been the inn-keeper."

He went in, and so Jareth, with great reluctance, followed. Although the afternoon sun shone brightly, it was dark inside, the smoke from the fire coiling visibly through the common room. Jareth looked about, fascinated – fae, of all kinds, sat and ate or drank at heavy, thick wooden tables, all of them grimly minding their own business, or talking in low, serious voices.

In the taverns and inns of his reckless youth, when it had been fashionable to embark on swaggering progresses through the less respectable parts of the city, he had encountered many different common rooms. However, none had ever been as patently unwelcoming as this one. He could feel eyes on him, watching him, evaluating him, and he felt uncomfortable, as he had never done as a self-assured, foolish young noble, even in the worst slums.

"You're a new face," Bran said to him as they sat down at a spare table with two tankards. "They don't like strangers out here."

"Should I be wary?"

"No. You came in with me – and _I _am not a stranger. They'll reserve their judgment."

Jareth grunted. He took a cautious sip of the house brew, and then another, larger one. "I've noticed that," he said quietly. "You're not a stranger. Everywhere we go, on the road, even this far into the Fringes – you're well known."

Bran said nothing. One of the first things Jareth had learned on the road was that no one ever asked or answered questions about their past.

"Why did you allow me to come with you?" he asked instead.

Bran looked at him. "Why did you ask to come with me? Truth, Jareth."

Jareth opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. There were many reasons why he had asked Bran to take him with him. Most of them were true, to an extent: he felt he owed a debt of gratitude to the man for sheltering him; he sought someone who could teach him how to survive in his new world; he found Bran's presence reassuring and wished to continue traveling with him.

"You know the roads. You know the exiles. And they know you – and trust you." He paused again, took another sip of ale, and wondered if he dared reveal the full truth of his dream to a man he had known for barely six months. But Bran's eyes were steady and calm – once his allegiance was given, it would be forever. With this man at his side, with his strength, he could do anything…

"I want to unite the exiles," Jareth answered finally, "and build a kingdom."

There was silence between them now. He could not see what Bran was thinking.

"You said that your father had influence enough to ban you from all the Courts of Summer," Bran said slowly. "And yet that you are not of the Blood Royal. What is your father's name, Jareth?"

Jareth's eyes flicked up to meet Bran's; his odd, distinctive, mismatched eyes – his father's eyes. He could see the recognition in Bran's, wondered how long the other had known. "Aethan. Aethan, the Grey Lord in the shadows behind the Summer King – but you already knew that. You have known it for a long time, haven't you?"

"Since the first night on the road." Bran smiled, razor sharp and bitter. "Your eyes…" He shrugged. "I asked you on the first night, before I recognized you, and I ask you again: why did you fail in your bid for power, before you were exiled?"

Jareth stiffened. He remembered little of that first night, other than Bran's smooth amusement, and his own voice, rambling. Intoxicated, he was always extravagant – what had he revealed?

But there was no room for half-truth and evasion now. "Of my father's three sons, I am the youngest, and the most like him," he began. "But there is little scope for the youngest son – he taught me his craft, but gave me no outlet for it. So I tried my hand, and failing, created an incident that was blown up into an excuse for war."

"And? Tell me the rest."

Jareth's smile was twisted. "There is little I can say to excuse it. As you so often say, I am high court sidhe. I play cruel games with others' lives and emotions, I am extravagant in my joys and my hatreds, and if I am thwarted, then out of sheer spite I will go to any lengths to achieve my goals. My brothers, through sheer accidental luck, thwarted my first plan, so I plotted to kill them and take their money, land and power for myself." He looked down, remembering a dark haired, laughing woman, who had loved her husband and sons impartially, even the quicksilver youngest. "We have never been close. But I could not go through with it, in the end."

"You are a harsh judge," Bran said, after a moment. "It has been – what, two years since then? Are you still so extravagant?"

Jareth looked up, surprised at his calm, even tone. He'd thought Bran would be disgusted. "No. No, I don't think… The road discourages that sort of extravagance. Just as you wouldn't let me steal the horse, games are for the Courts."

"You have learned discipline." It was a statement, not a question. Then Bran smiled again, that razor sharp, bitter smile. "Your father is unparalleled, Jareth."

"I'm sorry?"

"Forgive me. An irrelevance." He dismissed it with a wave of the hand. "You asked me why I let you come with me – I will tell you why. _Because _you pulled back. Your father, if faced with a similar choice, would not have – but not because he had not yet learned discipline."

Instinctive denial rushed to Jareth's tongue, instantly stifled. He loved his father, had idolized him, once, but he could not deny the truth of Bran's words. "You know him."

"Oh, young fool, everyone knows the Grey Lord. He destroyed everything I have ever loved, once, simply because we were an obstacle to one of his schemes. I have spent a _thousand_ years dreaming of revenge – and then Aethan's son fell into my hands, and I thought I had found it."

Jareth drew back, shocked by the vehemence in those cool, steady eyes.

"Then why didn't you take it?"

"After a thousand years, even hatred cools. And you are not your father."

* * *

The patrons of the inn were unusually sensitive to trouble and danger. Thieves, murderers, fugitives and criminals, hermits and hunters and foresters, they made their home beyond the ragged edges of civilization, in the wild, empty, forgotten places of the Underground – and they knew trouble when they saw it. So when Bran, whom they knew and recognized, entered with an unknown newcomer who could provoke him to a reaction…

"Well, gentlemen, can I get you anything else?" Butterbur – incurably nosy, in this notoriously closemouthed region – took the initiative. The patrons watched as the fair stranger looked up, spooked by the question, but Bran put a hand on his arm, calming him.

"No," he said curtly. "Nothing, thank you Butterbur." The stranger echoed him, his voice low and courteous, and Butterbur trailed away, disappointed.

The patrons continued to watch them from the corners of their eyes. They could see the stranger's back grow taut, see him grow more and more uneasy as they continued to whisper, and comment, and stare. Finally, the stranger stood up and turned to face them, his eyes furious. "Well? Have you looked your fill? Is there something you wish to say to me?"

Bran made a swift, checked gesture, as if to silence him, but then held his peace. The damage was done. Having thrown the question out, the patrons gave up any pretence of discretion and watched avidly as the confrontation unfolded.

"Who are you?" Cullum Four-fingered asked, taking the first step. "We haven't seen you around here before."

"He looks like gentry," another hissed, his fingers twitching with hatred and rage. "There's no place for gentry out here."

There was a general growl of agreement, and the mood in the common room darkened. A good number of the creatures in this place owed their exile to the whims and fancies of Court fae; the gulf between Court and commons was immense, with hatred on one side and contempt and absolute indifference on the other.

"Tell us your name, pretty sidhe lord," crooned a ragged, filthy old woman. She reached out gnarled, dirt-encrusted fingers as if to touch the stranger's arm, to come close to his white, white skin and his bright shining face –

Bran reached out, grabbed her wrist, and twisted. She screamed, collapsed to her knees sobbing in pain, but there was no mercy in Bran's eyes.

"Enough," he hissed. "You will not touch him –"

But this time, the stranger put his hand on Bran's arm. "My name," he announced to the common room at large, his voice strong and authoritative, "is Jareth. My father is Aethan, the Grey Lord."

There was a moment of stunned silence. But something very, very dangerous simmered underneath…

"I am an exile," he continued, "like every one of you here." Catcalls began a rumbling of discontent, a wave of resentment that this shining one would so class himself with the rest of them. He ignored them. "And I have a proposal for you."

"Get out, Oathbreaker's son," someone shouted. "Get out before we kill you!" There was a roar of agreement. Someone threw a tankard, but it fell short.

"I have a proposal for you all," he shouted over the din. "Do you want to spend the rest of your life hunted like dogs in the Fringes?"

This time, the tankard made the distance, but the stranger flicked a hand and diverted it away. Another tankard came, and then another, and then a knife – and through all of this, Bran sat calmly at the table, his hand hidden in his cloak.

"Do you want to spend the rest of your life hiding from the Courts?" he shouted again, but was drowned out by the shouting, howling hatred of the mob. But he stood against it, a slim, white, shining figure – until someone smashed one of the lamps, and the burning oil fell onto the rushes. Unchanged for months, they were disastrously flammable; the fire grew and spread immediately, interrupting the screeching and shouting, turning the angry mob into a fearful one pushing and shoving their way to the door.

Bran took hold of Jareth's arm, dragging him towards the kitchens, down a flight of stairs that led into the inn's cellar. While the mob was trying to force their way through the front door, he and Jareth exited out the back. Behind them, they could hear Butterbur, his wife and the two serving girls, and so they hurriedly put up the hoods of their cloaks, hiding their faces, and melted into the surrounding forest.

* * *

Sometime later they rested by the bank of a small stream, Jareth stretched out casually on his back, Bran with his back against a tree, arms crossed over his drawn up knees. In the distance, they could still see the glow of the fire against the night sky.

"I thought," Bran said pleasantly, "that you wanted to unite the exiles."

Jareth laughed. "Don't sound so disapproving, Bran. I do. And I will."

"You've certainly chosen an odd way to go about it. Surely you know how much your father is hated?"

"Yes, I know. Everyone hates him – even you, the most patient of men."

This time Bran laughed. "Patient? I would not say so. But don't try to lead me astray, Aethan's son. What were you thinking, to introduce yourself so? I could have prepared the way for you, and you would have been accepted without question."

"That wasn't what I wanted, Bran. I don't want to be an exile."

"None of us do. But that doesn't change anything."

"No. If I am to rule over exiles, to command them, I can't be one of them – I need to be more, there must be a distance between us. I need to catch their imagination as well as their loyalty…"

"You've certainly caught their attention."

"And now they will come seeking me, rather than the other way around." He sat up, stared at Bran in the darkness. "I can't do this without you, Bran. You know all of them, their names, their thoughts, and their beliefs – will you help me forge the exiles into an army?"

"Your kingdom of exiles, in the farthermost west?"

"Yes! A place where they – we – will no longer be hunted and despised, where we can hold our heads high again, take a chance to regain our honour. We can be safe, Bran, safe enough that no one will ever touch us, ever again."

The moonlight shone on him as he spoke, illuminating his countenance, the shining skin, the beautiful, dangerous face. The bright, burning ambition, strong enough to set the whole world on fire –

But he had held back, once, out of love. He knew dreams from reality and after eighteen months on the road had an idea of what life was like outside the courts.

He was not his father.

"Once you bring this idea into existence," Bran said, very softly, "it can never be destroyed. Do you understand? This idea of the despised, united, will echo throughout the future of the Underground for the rest of time. Are you sure that you can control this force you will unleash?"

"I am." There was utter conviction in his voice, and Bran could not help but believe him. "If you help me, I can control it."

A place of their own. A kingdom where all the exiles of the Underground could find asylum, walk with their heads held high without fear of reprisal.

It was a good dream.

Bran had lived under the stark shadow of reality for so terribly long that he had almost forgotten how to dream. Now the son of his most hated enemy came to him, offering him a chance to create something extraordinary…

Jareth had never learned the true, grinding tyranny of necessity.

"Yes," he said finally. And then, "yes, and yes. I will help you create your dream."

* * *

A/N – Feedback is always greatly appreciated. Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N – Here we go with chapter 4. This chapter contains Aethan, the Grey Lord, Mountains of Blood, and a dwarf named Toggle.

Disclaimer – I don't own Labyrinth, the Underground, or the Goblin King. All the rest should be mine. Don't sue.

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Chapter 4

* * *

Word spread, as it always did, of Bran and his mad companion, the Grey Lord's son, who spoke impossible words of unity, strength, and sanctuary. The brethren of the road spoke of his dream of an Exiles' Kingdom, where even the most shameful criminal would have a second chance; peddlers debated the makeup of the lands to the west, and itinerant bards and minstrels sang of noble quests and great journeys.

The lords living near the Fringes – absorbed as they were in the greater concerns of the war – took little notice. But although they were blind to the consequences of this mad dream, one man was not; through arcane ways and secret messages, information, rumour and supposition made its way to Aethan the Grey, who made it his business to hear such things.

In the great palace beneath the Lake of Glass, an unobtrusive messenger bowed before his lord, seated at his breakfast table, and reported on all that he had heard and seen on the Fringes. Even to such a seasoned intriguer as the Grey Lord, his tidings were astonishing –

"You say he is gathering followers to him?" he asked, in his cool, precise voice, those odd, mismatched eyes studying the messenger closely. "Who?"

"My lord," the messenger said, "it took me three weeks to make my way here, and so he may have gathered more in the meantime –"

Aethan waved away his concerns. "Tell me what you do know."

"At his right hand stands an exiled sidhe known only as Bran. He is one of the major figures on the roads; everyone knows him and everyone trusts him. It is why the exiles are willing to listen to Jareth, when he openly proclaims that he is your son…"

The Grey Lord's smile was very, very thin and devoid of humour.

"He made his first declaration at Butterbur's inn, and was almost killed in the riot; after that, he travelled throughout the Fringes, speaking at meeting places and gatherings. At first, most people laughed, dismissing him as a madman, but as word spread, his quest began to catch people's imaginations…"

"A kingdom sanctuary," Aethan said, his eyes dark and flat. "As well it should. If he can make his ridiculous dream into a reality…"

"Do you think it's possible, my lord?" the messenger asked, sidetracked. His tone spoke of his disbelief; surely the lords of the Underground would never allow such a thing to happen.

"If anyone can, it is Jareth. Go on."

"The last time I saw him, there were fifteen who were willing to follow him. Criminals, thieves, refugees seeking a better life…"

"Does he allow anyone to follow him?"

The messenger paused. "Not precisely. I believe there were some who first followed him who later, er, went their own way. There are whispers – very small whispers, you understand – that those who left were known for their treacherousness, their ambition. But Jareth himself still speaks of accepting everybody who comes to him…"

"Ah…" The Grey Lord breathed, smiling a little. "So he has won our good Crow's loyalty, not just his services." He tapped his fingers a little on the table, his eyes far away and thoughtful.

"My lord?" the messenger ventured. "It may be possible to slip a spy in among his followers. I have some suitable men on the roads and on the Fringes…"

But, after a while, Aethan shook his head. "No, Llyr. Let him stand or fall on his own."

With a small gesture, he dismissed the messenger, who bowed again and left the room.

When he was alone, Aethan sat for a time, thinking on the extraordinary news. Jareth could not have picked a more opportune time to launch his mad venture. If the Underground weren't at war, with vultures gathering around the beleaguered High King, and ambitious lords seeking power and opportunity through the blade, diplomacy, or sometimes both, then the idea of an uprising of the despised would _never _be tolerated.

No adviser, in normal times, could possibly allow a young upstart to gain the allegiance of the largest group of unsworn warriors in the Underground, all of whom had some kind of grudge against the Courts. But these were not normal times, and the world's focus was fixed firmly on the war –

If Jareth succeeded in his quest, it would change the whole political landscape of the Underground. And in the aftermath of a devastating war, many unforeseen opportunities would arise…

* * *

Almost a month later, far, far to the west, Jareth and his motley band of followers rode in the shadow of a great mountain range. The small, wretched creatures that had guided them across the Great Plains cowered in superstitious awe, whispering amongst themselves, making the sign against evil as they approached the rising foothills. Their unease was contagious, and the mounted band shifted restlessly, eyes constantly searching, disturbed by something they could not name.

Besides the general aura of the place, there was one very pertinent problem.

"They call them the Mountains of Blood," Bran said, drawing him away from the others. "It is easy to see why."

Jareth looked down at the discoloured soil passing beneath the horses' hooves, his eyes narrowed and his face stark white. "It's easy to feel why," he countered. "Iron ore…"

"Even the streams run crimson. We cannot drink the water; we dare not even touch it –"

But Jareth had come too far to be turned back by his lieutenant's concerns, no matter how justified. "Just imagine," Jareth breathed, summoning up a tight, ironic smile. "What splendid walls the gods have given us. We could last out a siege behind these battlements…"

"If it doesn't kill us first," Bran said bluntly. "Goblins and the smallfolk may have some immunity to iron, but not sidhe – you _know _this. If we go into these mountains, some of us will die before we even reach your fabled kingdom."

"Then they will die in pursuit of a dream."

"Small comfort to them, Jareth."

Jareth's mouth tightened and his eyes grew cold. "There is no other way. If some of us die on the way, then so be it. We cannot turn back now, Bran."

Watching, Bran saw the set of Jareth's jaw and the grim determination in his eyes. For a moment, he recognized echoes of the Grey Lord in his son's ruthless drive…

He sighed. "Are you sure that your promised land lies behind these mountains?"

Jareth's face softened and relaxed. "I have seen it, Bran. In a dream, I saw it…" His voice trailed off. "It's so close I can feel it calling to me. It's as if I could reach out and touch it, grasp it, take it –"

"And will we reach it in four days, before our drinking water runs out?" In their strange partnership, where Jareth supplied the dreams, the ambition, and the charisma, he provided the practicality and took care of the details – sometimes with brutal finality.

Jareth sighed. "Bran…"

But Bran was insistent. "This is no jest, Jareth. We have only so much water shared amongst thirty men. The water, the earth, the very air is poisonous – now tell me, once again, that we will reach this paradise of yours before the water runs out and we all die."

"You know I can't tell you that, Bran," Jareth said quietly, turning his eyes towards his second-in-command. "Do you want empty reassurances? _I don't know._"

There was a moment of tense, fraught, frustrated silence. Bran's face was set, grim, and completely unreadable as he looked up at the mountains, stained deep crimson by the afternoon sunlight and the rich, poisonous deposits of iron ore. "We are all fools," he said finally. "You and I most of all." With that, he spurred his horse further up and further in, making for a red-shadowed pass that looked to be the quickest way through.

* * *

Three days into the pass, Adan, one of the more sensitive to iron among them, was riding hunched over his horse, a red-stained cloth pressed to his mouth. His face was ashen and there were huge dark circles under his eyes – the coughing was almost constant, now. Bran kept a hand on his back, lending what strength he could, while trying to ignore the pounding ache in his temples. The mountains seemed to shift before his eyes, shadows moving, mirages shimmering and taunting his vision –

By his side rode Toggle, a twisted, misshapen dwarf, perched precariously in his saddle. Unlike the tall, pale shining ones among the party, Toggle had only a minor reaction to the iron all around them, and Bran had been forced to rely on the dwarf for many of the things he would have taken care of himself.

"He's dying," Toggle said bluntly, looking critically at Adan. "And Deith isn't far behind him."

Bran's mouth tightened. His horse stumbled, stepping into a small stream and sending crimson stained spray up into his face and hands. The agony was immediate and overwhelming; he dropped the reins and gasped, almost falling out of the saddle – Toggle grabbed his shirt and hauled him back, saving him from an immersion in the poisoned water.

Once, the dwarf might have laughed in sheer glee at the sight of so many bright, beautiful sidhe brought so low. But over the last three days, as he and his fellow 'smallfolk' – the lesser fae – had had to take a greater role in the expedition, Toggle had begun to realize that iron was a great equalizer –

Lleu, bright golden Lleu, so lighthearted even Toggle and the other lesser fae had been drawn to him, had died yesterday, crying out in agony as he thrashed and writhed.

Adan, with his disdainful sneer, his stained lace shirts and his fancy rapier, was coughing his lungs up and dying, and Deith, sullen and brooding, was chalk white and labouring for breath.

Even Bran, the strongest, most quietly capable of their band, was shivering under Toggle's steadying hand, his solid, reassuring strength only illusion now. In fact, the only one of the sidhe unaffected by the iron was Jareth, or else his glamour was a good deal stronger than everyone else's was.

He rode at the head of their column, sitting straight and elegant in the saddle, a shining white beacon illuminating the way. Toggle could see the glances the rest of the party sent him, looking up and drawing determination from some unnamed source, finding the strength to carry on so that they could follow him. Even Bran did it; with a wan grin and a nod of thanks, he removed his sleeve from Toggle's grip and straightened himself in the saddle, renewing the illusion of unshakable strength.

But Toggle had seen behind the glamour, and knew – as so many of his cousins still did not – that the sidhe were not invulnerable, not all-powerful and invincible. And he would remember…

* * *

On the fourth day, as Deith had to be tied into his saddle and another rider had to hold Adan around the waist to keep him upright, Toggle heard one of his scouts calling out excitedly. He turned to Bran, who was riding slumped over, swaying in the saddle, and shook him, hard – no need to worry about swordsman's reflexes here.

"Goblins!" he hissed, snapping his fingers in front of Bran's face. "Snicks has spotted sign of goblins."

Slowly, Bran shook his head, his eyes gradually clearing, brightening. "Goblins?" he repeated. Toggle saw the exact moment when he returned to full awareness. "Where? Have we come to the end of the pass?"

They spurred their horses, riding to the front of the column to join Jareth, who was conferring with the scout. "Did you hear, Bran?" Jareth asked, his eyes shining. "There is some kind of a primitive road; Snicks followed it to the other side of the mountains. In an hour, maybe more, we'll be through!"

Bran's smile as Jareth spurred his horse into a gallop, shouting the news aloud was thin, bitter, and rueful. "Goblins," he said again, softly. "Did you ever think you would be grateful to hear of goblins sighted?"

They kicked their horses into a trot, and behind them the column picked up speed, the weary, half-dead riders heartened by the word that their journey was nearly over.

Toggle frowned. "You do not believe in his dream?" Then why did Bran follow Jareth, if he did not wish to be free?

"I believe in Jareth," Bran replied. "Dreams are fickle creatures, and far more expensive than they're worth." He bent over, suddenly, and began to cough, a paroxysm of deep, harsh convulsions. Toggle stared at him in alarm, made to help him, but Bran waved him off impatiently.

When he straightened, with difficulty, and removed his hand from his mouth, it was stained with thick, crimson blood –

And they emerged to find Jareth and the scout at the end of the pass, on the far side of the Mountains of Blood. Below them stretched wide, green plains and thick dark forests, a winding silver ribbon of a river and air – pure, clean air untainted by iron or any other pollution.

Jareth was staring, his eyes wide and awed, and a small, very private smile playing on his lips. With a wild, echoing cry of exultation, he dragged his horse's head up, sending it careening headlong down the mountainside in a mad release of all the stress, doubt and exhaustion of the last terrible four days. The horse stumbled, went down, but Jareth launched himself into the air and _rippled – _

A white owl rose on the air above the mountains, superimposed itself against the aching blue sky, and soared aloft as the other riders finally came to the end of their journey.

* * *

Bran had watched the owl's flight with more care than the others, who had been engrossed in the new land, and so had seen the wavering wings and the effort it took to stay steady in the air. When the sun fell, he finally tracked Jareth down to a small clearing in the tangled woods, noting the gleaming white of his skin –

He lay half-collapsed near the stream, completely still, his eyes sunken and closed and his face grey and drawn. Dappled leaf-shadow made patterns on his skin, and Bran had to put a hand on his chest to feel the halting, rattling breath.

"You fool," he said. "You magnificent, moonstruck fool…"

* * *

A/N - Thank you to my reviewers: **dansemacabre: **_Thanks for the compliment! I don't intend to go into too much detail here, because this story is sort of a prelude/prequel for my other Labyrinth fic (which actuallyis an epic) named the Catalyst. I wanted this to be more of an adventure story, with far less politics. _**Midnight Lady: **_Thank you for all the compliments you've ever given me! Glad to know you like this one too. _**Thessaly: **_Yes, I'm already a Lymond fan, devoured Game of Kings about four years ago and finished Gemini in August. There are otherDunnett fans on this sitebut not nearly as many as there should be. And it's amazing how different a story is if you don't have Sarah_**. Coran Nackatori**_: The Borgias were always my favourite Renaissance family.There's something fascinating about their audacity and ruthlessness. _

Feedback is always appreciated! Thanks very much for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N – So, Jareth and co. have found their new world. But can they make it their own?

Disclaimer – I don't own the Labyrinth. But having said that, there's a fair bit of leeway to explore… I have also borrowed the idea of witchwood as the material of choice in sidhe swords from Tad William's great series 'Memory, Sorrow and Thorn'.

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**CHAPTER 5 – The Labyrinth**

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Jareth crouched down, running his fingers through the grass, testing the soil and the earth underneath. It was good land, rich, and fertile – the rivers were cool and clear, untainted by the iron in the mountains, and the forests were thick and bursting with game. There were small, strange creatures in the forests and the fields – cousins to the smallfolk, so far as they had been able to gather – and the usual birds and beasts of an uninhabited land, but no higher life forms.

Other than the ever-present goblins.

Primitive, belligerent, and often vicious, they grouped together in clan-like groups, all incestuously linked by centuries of shared atrocities, blood feuds, and senseless bloodshed. They fought incessantly amongst themselves, but the moment an outsider stepped into their quarrels, they would join forces and turn on the common enemy.

After the first few days, Jareth's followers gave up on the idea of taking advantage their incessant squabbling, once it became clear that there was something else that made the goblins potentially deadly –

They had a very high tolerance for iron.

The old, hallowed sidhe tradition of divide and conquer was useless, if there was a chance that the goblins – united against them in unexpected tradition – had weapons that could inflict fatal wounds. Under other circumstances, Bran would have given the order anyway and relied on superior intelligence and planning, but they were only thirty, and the goblins swarmed in their thousands…

"_We cannot fight them," Bran had said, at their nightly councils 'round the fire. "There are too many – primitive or not, they do not need exceptional intelligence to overwhelm us by sheer weight of numbers. Our magic can only kill so many at a time."_

_Toggle, the insubordinate dwarf who'd had firsthand evidence of sidhe vulnerability, had snorted. "Surely not," he'd sneered. "Surely your bright brilliance will be enough to have 'em bowing down in sheer awe."_

_Some of the more prejudiced sidhe had eyed him unpleasantly, muttering amongst themselves. Bran had given Toggle more and more responsibility after the terrible journey through the Iron Pass, to the point where he had become Bran's second in all but name. _

"_Enough, Toggle," Jareth had said, with less than his usual authority. He was still suffering from the after-affects of the iron poisoning, suffering occasional dizziness and nausea, and a throat scraped raw from constant coughing. But then, they all were – all of them except the smallfolk. Like it or not, they needed their strength. "If we cannot fight them, then we must somehow find a way to bargain with them."_

"_Bargain with lesser primitives?" Cullen, a former petty thief had exclaimed, horrified. _

"_Yes. They are sentient beings, are they not? Then they trade, and negotiate, and bargain amongst themselves, just as all other small and wild folk do in the Underground. We can communicate with them, and find out what price they put on their land."_

Most of the others, of course, had been in favour of simply taking what they wanted by force. It had taken a graphic demonstration of what iron axes could do to a sidhe body to convince them – the lesson coming at the expense of the unfortunate Cullen, who had thought to countermand Jareth's orders and go after the goblins himself.

Bran had caught him, and delivered him up to the tribal leaders for punishment.

That singular combination of Bran's ruthless discipline and the goblin's ruthless viciousness had served to persuade the band to Jareth's way of thinking. It had also served to open the channels of communication with one particular tribe, and all their tangled webs of alliances and family groups. Trade – of a sort, conducted as it was in primitive pidgin – had been established, sidhe finery and foolery for essential minerals (bronze, not iron) and food, and sidhe magic in return for the closest the goblins ever came to proprietary rights –

The right to defend a piece of land against all who would take it from him.

So, Jareth had acquired the overlordship of whatever land he could take for his own. Together, he and Bran had found a rich, fertile stretch of land overlooked by a high hill – looking at it now, silhouetted against the sinking sun, he could see the fortress he would create, strong and sure, a shelter against the terrible events Outside. And he would need to build some kind of defenses soon –

It was good land, and there were others who sought it.

Overlordship, here, was only as strong as the grip on your sword. And Jareth's grip on his witchwood sword was useless, against iron. Force was useless, in this strange new land he had determined to make his own – but Jareth was sidhe, and the sidhe were, at heart, creatures of magic.

Inhaling deeply, smoothly, he dug his hand deeply into the soil, feeling the cool, thick richness of it, feeling the water running through it, feeling the endless cycle of death, life, and rebirth that it cradled and supported. Questing, he sent his senses down into the earth, seeking out the magical bonds that held this land together, the deep, deep beating heart –

_There. There it was._

Dark, and dank, stinking of earth, water, grass, and decay, it was untouched, pure, uncontrolled wild magic in its natural, most primitive state. The power of it rocked him, shortening his breath, raising the hair on his arms and on the nape of his neck. It was _alien, other_, and he wondered at his presumption in thinking that he could harness it, that he could control it and turn it to his will.

_He reached out to it – _

_It reached out to him – _

It poured into him, flooding through him, surging through his blood and his bone and the small, bright core of him that was his magic, but he was _not strong enough _to contain it, not strong enough to encompass it –

The power kept on coming, pouring endlessly into him, overwhelming him. It burned, and seared, and scoured, and he _screamed…_

Finding its vessel imperfect, the magic sought to change him.

* * *

Bran heard the screams first, and came running into the meadow, weapon drawn and ready for anything. But when he found Jareth, he saw nothing – no threat, no enemy, nothing but Jareth convulsing on the grass. Others came pounding after him, swords drawn –

"What is this?" Toggle whispered hoarsely, reaching out to touch their thrashing leader. Bran grabbed his arm, stopping him a few inches away, and then staring in horrified fascination as their hands _rippled. _

Slowly, the rest of them shuffled further back, putting a prudent distance between themselves and whatever was happening to Jareth. In the last few weeks, they had become more comfortable with the idea of their new land, after the horrors of the mountain passage and the indignity of dealing with goblins. But this was something altogether different.

As they watched, Jareth's back arched and twisted, and his head was thrown back, his neck corded with taut, straining muscle, his lips pulled away from his teeth in a snarling, grimacing howl. His face shimmered, and stretched –

And the land shuddered and rolled beneath their feet.

Staggering, crying out in terror, the band of companions grabbed onto anything that would give them stability. Bran, flailing and ungainly, reached out to Jareth, and tried to shelter him. He gripped his hand, hard, and held on as tightly as he could –

Magic smashed into him, overflowing, overwhelming, and suddenly he was everywhere, everything, his awareness omniscient, his consciousness suddenly ancient, and all-pervading.

It was too much.

The world vanished, and he fell.

* * *

The earth shook, rolled, and twisted while terrified beings – whether sidhe, or smallfolk, or goblins – fell to the ground, their eyes tightly closed against the upheaval and chaos around them. It was simply too much, the cataclysm – too much for them to encompass, and so they shut themselves against it and retreated deep within themselves, seeking only survival.

But Jareth, who had tapped into the magic first, was changed. As the earth was reshaped around him, so was he too reshaped, his soul stamped with another force –

A binding.

An obligation.

A Covenant.

And then, once it was done, the magic subsided, and the heaving earth settled into its new position, leaving only echoing silence behind.

* * *

He woke, with a gasp.

His whole body ached, ached like it had never ached before, and he sat up with a long, agonized groan. His head pounded, and the air was blindingly bright, even with the pall of dust hanging in the air.

He choked, coughing harshly, his chest heaving as he fought to control the small convulsions. Breathing hoarsely, he struggled to his feet, not recognizing his surroundings – surely, it had been a green meadow before?

Now, there was only stone and rock, endless twisting turns of it thrown up by the earthquake, like folds rippling crazily in all directions.

Gods of Earth and Sky, what had happened here?

What had he done?

All around him, thrown about like discarded dolls, were his companions. Toggle, ungainly legs twisted the wrong way, was lying on his side, whimpering. Snicks, the small scout, was crouched over, rocking back and forth, back and forth, burying his head in his arms. Others were shaking, clearly terrified, or simply staring, their eyes wide and blank.

Bran lay half on his back, his thick hair trailing in the dirt, tangled with grass, twigs and blood –

He was not moving.

"Bran!" he shouted hoarsely, scrambling over to kneel by his side. Frantically, he checked the other man's pulse, hands racing over the pale, clammy skin, slipping over the thick, crimson blood.

"Wake up," he said, his throat tight and choked. "Wake up, wake up, wake up…" Thumping on his chest, he tried to stimulate the heartbeat, but there was nothing.

And then Bran gasped, his chest rising, his eyes flying open –

"_Whut hab you done?"_

* * *

Snagtooth, the shaman of the Red Claw tribe, looked on in horrified awe at the tall, white shining stranger.

"Whut hab you done?" he demanded, his voice snarling and guttural with fear, stumbling on the alien syllables.

The dark one, the white one's shadow, tried to get up, to put himself between Snagtooth and the white stranger, but the other put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down, rising to his own great height.

Snagtooth looked up, and up – and then he froze.

The white stranger had had devil's eyes before, but now they were outlined by shimmering colouration, winged up at the edges, and they glittered with impartial cruelty; he had been powerful before, but now something deep, dark and almost uncontrolled stirred restlessly beneath his skin.

He looked at Snagtooth, his expression unreadable, and then he turned his attention to the earth, twisted and reformed around him, and to the moaning, shivering men behind him. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth hardened.

"I have stamped my claim," he said. "And now you may take this land from me, if you dare."

* * *

A/N – Feedback is greatly appreciated. Please tell me what you think; thank you to all those who reviewed the last chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N – **I made a prediction, a few chapters ago, that this story would only run to five or so chapters. I wasn't far off. This is the last chapter, and it will be followed by an epilogue.

**Disclaimer – **I don't own the Labyrinth. No money made from this. Don't sue.

**

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**Chapter 6**

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Jareth watched the rise and creation of his new fortress, carved from solid grey stone. It was not the white marble palace beneath the Lake of Glass, nor the spun-glass confection of the Madrigal of Khandalia, but it was filled enough whimsical, architectural oddities to soothe his sidhe soul –

In this land, so alien to the shining ones, it was good to have something to satisfy his more frivolous side.

The goblins, most of whom regarded him as some kind of god, had built settlements under the castle's shadow, wishing to share in his magic and protection; Jareth was not pleased at the shantytowns springing up around him, but as he had learned in dealing with goblins, there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Goblins did what they willed, when they willed, and it took something spectacular to change their minds.

"It may be that we will not need this fortress," Bran said quietly, coming to hunker down beside him. "From what news I have heard from Outside, the war is coming to an end. Llacheu the High King has lost everything but the great palace itself, and Black Donn and Cormack the Red are at a stalemate in Samarkand. Soon they will go to the negotiating table."

"They will join forces," Jareth said absently, "and turn upon Llacheu. His son, Dante, is only a boy."

"Vipers," Bran growled under his breath. "They will dishonour everything their men died for."

Jareth turned to Bran and smiled. "I did not think you so idealistic, brother Raven. Surely you know how the game is played?"

"And you would enter into this arena?"

"I would. I will be a king in truth."

Bran shook his head, his eyes hard and fierce. "You are a King more absolute than any of them. You do not need their acknowledgment."

"A kingdom cannot stand in isolation, Bran. We will need to trade, to interact with the world Outside –"

"We came here to _escape_ the outside world, not to invite it in."

"Bran. Come." Jareth put a hand on Bran's shoulder, squeezing gently. "You _know _of what I speak. You simply do not wish to acknowledge it."

"No, Jareth. You have always wished for power, but your view is shaped by the courts, by your father's teachings – do you think that the Council's acknowledgment will give you the power you seek? Power of this sort cannot be given; it can only be taken. You have it now, you are King by your own hands – if you go back Outside, if you enter into their games, then you will allow them to shape your rule…"

"There is no other way. That is how things are done."

Bran turned to the man who had done the unthinkable, and yet refused to countenance independence from the Council of Lords."

_Of my father's three sons, I am the most like him. He taught me his craft, but gave me no outlet for it…_

"And what price your vaunted independence? If, as you say, the Kings of Winter and Summer will join – they will carve the Underground – and us – up between them. "

"I will not allow that to happen."

Bran said nothing.

* * *

Jareth watched the older man walk away. Bran's displeasure stung, but he did not understand the larger picture, the necessity of interaction with the Council and the other kingdoms of the Underground. Without an input into the political processes of the whole Underground, without any way to influence events that could shape the world, then a kingdom that stood alone could be swept away by the next wave.

In the aftermath of this war, changes would be made that would influence the course of the Underground for centuries to come. If Cormack and Donn joined together to sideline the High King –

He could not afford to stand by and allow the affairs of the Underground to be decided without him. He had not come all this way, through fire and iron, to be relegated once again to the sidelines. This time, he would take his rightful place among the powerful puppet masters…

* * *

Time passed.

The war ended, and for the first time in years, the Council of Lords was called at the High King's palace. Here, the post-war divisions of the Underground would be decided; and here, for the very first time, Jareth the Goblin King would take his place as sovereign of the independent Goblin Kingdom.

For what it was worth.

Aethan, seated behind his own king, Cormack Ruagh, the King of the primary court of Summer, watched his son enter the council chamber with great interest. It had been nearly ten years since he'd last seen Jareth, and the changes were dramatic.

Not just the physical changes, which were clear for all to see, but also the unseen; the aura of greater danger, and greater confidence, and the maturity that had replaced what had once been cocky arrogance. Behind him and to the side stood the black-haired Exile Bran, his grey cloak a mocking reminder of what he was, and what Jareth commanded.

Briefly, just before Jareth made his bow to the new High King, young, inexperienced Dante, he flicked his eyes in Aethan's direction. Their eyes met, clashed; it was a challenge, a dare, and a question all at once.

Aethan smiled, very, very thinly.

The murmuring began as the other rulers in the chamber noticed the resemblance between them. Speculative looks were exchanged as they wondered how this would benefit Aethan, or Jareth, or both, or neither –

Well, they would all find out, very, very soon.

* * *

Centuries later, they would speak of this Council as the most definitive political meeting since the kingdoms and courts had joined together into a loose confederation under a High King, six thousand years ago. They would call it the Beginning of the Balance, for the two most powerful kings wielded the kingdoms of the Underground into two huge power blocs, Winter and Summer, sidelining the High King and establishing a détente that would last a thousand years. The only ones to escape involuntary inclusion into the Balance were the smallest, most insignificant kingdoms, who, under the leadership of the Goblin King, became the Non-Aligned –

The price for this freedom, for his unprecedented seizure of power, Jareth found, was a geas.

_If you would take the Exiles of the Underground under your protection, Goblin King, _Aethan's voice had spoken through a puppet,_ then you must also take the exiles of the Aboveground._ _The unwanted will be wished away to you, and unless their tormentors reconsider and win them back, then you must keep them…_

Games.

Always, it came back to games.

* * *

A/N – Finished! Next chapter is an epilogue: Sarah. And that should bring us full circle, to the beginning of the Catalyst.


	7. Epilogue

A/N – Thank you to all those who have reviewed and expressed your support and enjoyment. It was greatly appreciated. And to all the lurkers (come on, I know you're out there) I hope you've enjoyed the story.

Disclaimer – I don't own the Labyrinth. Don't sue.

**

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**Epilogue: Sarah**

* * *

The Goblin King sat, hands restlessly playing with a clear glass crystal. Staring intently out the window, he tracked the progress of the peach –

"You sent her a fantasy."

He turned his head. Bran, in his usual black attire, was leaning against the doorjamb, his expression disapproving.

"Her eyes are full of dreams. Who am I to deny her?"

"She is a selfish brat who wished her brother away in a fit of pique."

"Bran," he said patiently, "she will lose herself in the fantasy. It'll delay her –"

"Jareth. Please. Already she watches you, fascinated; her awakening sexuality responding to the fantasies you fulfill for her. Don't let her catch _you _in her spell."

Jareth spun the glass crystal over the backs of his fingers, holding it out to Bran on his palm. His hands, long and white, were framed by falls of crisp lace –

Bran remembered when they had been scratched, calloused and battered, covered in mud and blood and worse.

"I sometimes wonder, Bran, whether you, too, see me as you would like me to be."

There was a moment of silence as Bran raised his eyes to Jareth's, a long, silent assessment of the true value of that statement.

"There was a time, once, when the goblins were more than gibbering, mindless creatures, and the Goblin King more than a flouncing dilettante."

Just like Jareth's earlier words, Bran's were designed to sting. Centuries had passed since Jareth had ridden through blood and iron to conquer a kingdom of his own, with Bran always behind him, ready to support him when he tired. Now there was no more need for such heroics – Jareth's battles were political, fought out in the glittering ballrooms of the courts, or psychological, in the winding corridors and mental games of his Labyrinth.

Jareth sighed. For a moment, he looked exhausted –

"We could not have foreseen my father's geas, Bran. These mortals and their careless cruelties – they expect so much! And yet I can't simply let them win…"

The Labyrinth was the manifestation of Jareth's control over the Goblin Kingdom; his power over the land funneled through its winding, tortuous corridors. If one of the humans managed to find their way through – well, there were a number of different theories.

Bran huffed a small, weary laugh.

"Rumours, myths, supposition – they have not bled for this land, Jareth. I don't believe the magic works that way."

"A comforting thought. Nevertheless –"

There was a subliminal tugging, a twist of magic. "Your fantasy," Bran said ruefully. "I wonder what she will make of it."

_

* * *

_

_It was a pseudo-Venetian ballroom, light, airy and glittering, with just enough of an air of danger to titillate a young girl-woman with dreams in her eyes. She was wearing a girlish, innocent dress, as befitted the princess, the belle, the heroine. _

_As Bran watched, she looked about her in undisguised wonder, searching for her natural counterpart. It did not escape his notice that she was wearing no mask, employing no deceptions; Jareth, in almost-villainous dark blue, was capricious, enigmatic, the Rake – drawn, almost against his will, until they were face to face. _

_Unmasked, under a spell of almost painful honesty, they danced – _

_And then, her face hardening with determination, with revulsion, that he had tried to trick her so, she twisted herself out of his arms and smashed her way out of the illusion…_

* * *

Jareth stared after the fleeing girl, his expression unreadable. Quite how much of himself he'd put into the girl's fantasy, Bran did not know, but as the crystal shards rained down around them, dissolving into shimmers of illusion, the harsh, cynical lines on Jareth's face were graven deeper than Bran could ever remember before.

For a moment, he hesitated, wondering how far he should push the issue. "How much of that was her shaping?"

"All of it," Jareth grunted. "Or, at least, most of it – _'the King of the Goblins had fallen in love with the girl'. _Her dreams and fancies have real power."

"Enough to drag you in against your will?"

Jareth gave him a sharp, unfriendly look. "You know, Bran, sometimes you infuriate me –"

"These mortals with their careless cruelties, their heavy expectations – is that not what you said?" Bran demanded. "Why are you indulging this one?"

"I do not have to explain myself to you," Jareth snarled.

"I am responsible for the security of this kingdom. If you endanger it on a whim, or in a fit of infatuated madness –"

"Damn you, I am the King!"

Jareth's eyes were narrowed and dark with fury, his face white and taut, his nostrils flared, as they stared at each other across a chasm of strained expectations.

"Yes." Bran said, with awful softness. "You are the King. Do not lose sight of that, in the throes of your grand passion."

_

* * *

_

_White, strained, clearly exhausted, Jareth had been stripped of every single one of his pretences, pared down to the very essence of his being. _

"_Generous? What have you done that's generous?"_

"_Everything! Everything that you asked of me, I have done. I have turned the world upside down, and I have done it all for you!"_

_Listening to those words, Bran's heart ached. He remembered the magnificent, extravagant creature he'd first met, so many years ago. He remembered the white owl, soaring across the gloriously blue sky, and the uncontrolled plummet towards the earth. He remembered the fierce recklessness that had so awed the goblins – _

"_I am exhausted from living up to your expectations."_

_But she did not – or would not – see. Determinedly, she recited the lines she'd once read in an inferior play. _

"_Stop!" _

_She paused, held by the urgent authority in his tone, and the world held its breath with her. _

"_Look what I'm offering you, Sarah. I ask for so little..."_

_But Sarah was determined not to be deceived again. Bran watched, numbed by the certain sense of inevitability, as she shattered their whole world._

* * *

When it was done, when the bell finished tolling, Jareth crouched, shivering, amongst the ruins of far more than his castle. He heard rubble crunching under a sure, slow step, and knew even without turning that it was Bran, watching him with those inscrutable grey eyes.

"Well?" he managed to force out through the numbing veil of weakness and exhaustion.

For once, Bran remained mercifully silent. A steadying, reassuring hand gripped his shoulder, and just for a moment, he leaned into Bran's strength and calm, steady purpose. Then, with a pained grunt, he forced himself to stand up and survey the extent of his defeat.

Goblins rioted in the streets. Other creatures milled about, shocked by the unthinkable concept of their king defeated at his own game. His Exiles, grim faced, were clearly displeased to find that their sanctuary was not invulnerable –

"Was it worth it?" he asked Bran. "Your own grand passion?"

It was not something they had discussed, before. But it was an old, half-remembered story, a rumour, a whispered comment on the road…

Bran's eyes flicked away, and then quickly back, irony overlaying faint echoes of an ancient, terrible grief. "I lost everything," he said dryly. "Stripped of wealth and title and honour – in the end, I lost even my name..." Turning away to look out over the rubble, he grinned mirthlessly. "So tell me: did _you_ think it worth the price?"

There was a long, fraught silence. "At the time – yes."

Bran sighed. "I suppose," he said gently, "that I should know by now not to expect half-measures of you."

Jareth forced himself to laugh, wincing as he stumbled and almost fell. Instantly, Bran's arm was around him, supporting him, upholding him – he shook it off, and stood up by himself.

"Well," he said, in a very different tone this time. "Come then. Let us do what we can to clean up this mess."

Drawing himself up, surrounding himself with the aura and authority of the Goblin King, he ventured down into the midst of the disaster area, issuing orders and instructions as he went. All around him, his subjects took heart, working with more purpose, their fears eased as he walked among them, just as strong and authoritative as he had always been.

Bran followed behind him.

* * *

FIN

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